


Climb the Cliff and Jump Again

by dunkindeezdonuts



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunkindeezdonuts/pseuds/dunkindeezdonuts
Summary: "Their first kiss came 6 years and 127 days too late; but he couldn't help it."Years after Edward Nygma put a bullet in Oswald Cobblepot and tossed him off the ledge The Penguin and the Riddler are uneasy allies. Their alliance is shaky and their relationship more so. So what is Edward thinking when he decides to test the icy waters with a kiss? Far too little and far too much.He better be careful lest the Shadow King of Gotham decides to gut him like a fish for lighting a flame that he tried so desperately to put out.





	1. why can’t we laugh now like we did then?

**Author's Note:**

> This story as it goes on will jump back and forth between Ed and Os's POV. This chapter is all Ed though. 
> 
> I didn't have anyone to beta this so I hope I didn't fuck it up too much, sorry.

Their first kiss came 6 years and 127 days too late; but he couldn't help it.

\- 

"Oswald," breathless, bewitched, bellied up to the brim with something he couldn't even put a name on. His mind empty and his fingers itching to react, he'd made the first move before he could stop himself. 

"Penguin." 

The eyes that slowly rose up in defiance were filled with enough ice to match the moniker and would have capsized any lesser ship on the choppy antarctic waters attempting to be navigated. Edward had thanked the stars and the heavens at that moment he'd never possessed the fatal flaws of the Titanic. No, he'd built himself up bigger and better. 

With a fire in his belly and his brain buzzing static with a prayer he and any gods that may exist could barely register he had charged forward to attempt to melt the man before him.

Covered in blood, surrounded by the men he'd methodicaly cut the life from, the man known as the Penguin: King of Gotham was kissed by the man he'd once loved, who'd hoped that the passion would carry over from dead flesh to his own foolish live wire of a self. 

 

 

It hadn't. 

-

With a shove the world righted itself before he could say the same of his limbs. What was he doing? 

"What are you doing?!"

He didn't know but he did know that a second before the only thing in the room he couldn't take his eyes off of was now the only thing he couldn't bring himself to look at. What had he been thinking? He didn't know but that was a lie, wasn't it? He knew, he knew far too well. 

Oswald Cobblepot, the man whom he'd admired so greatly and had been so close to, the man who'd betrayed him and whom died for it, the man who'd he'd ached to see in death and when life breathed in him haunted him all over again only this time with the need to kill again, to bury his mistake, to desperately pay for the price he'd once thought so righteous that if he didn't stay dead it would all be for naught. And he may not have murdered him, not in the true sense, but ever since he'd put a bullet in his chest and kept trying to put more; he'd changed. The man of vibrant purples and royal golds had faded to muted gray over the years. The feud died with the lack of colors in the man who'd been every shade under the sun with his kaleidoscope of emotions. And now here he was with the ghost, yes that's what he was a ghost and that was why Ed had to keep the body alive even if it was only in his mind, the ghost who had become his unwilling ally as the Shadow King of Gotham, the man who too many years too late kept him up at night because fuck he'd loved him this whole time hadn't he? Oswald Cobblepot didn't deserve this confession and was... Not furious for it? God, shit, fuck, what was that expression? Answer him, idiot! No wait figure out first what that look in his eyes means. He'd thought he'd have heard a shout of rage but perhaps that had been in his head, the Oswald he had known inside and out overwriting the Penguin before him today. 

"What are you doing?" replayed in his mind, fixed this time to the present. It hadn't been shouted, much like the Oswald inside of him had shouted. No, that was detached interest. That was looking over at a coworker you weren't particularly close with making a mistake type detached interest. Ed wanted to throw up.

"I don't know," he answered, both truth and lie, weakly.

He wondered if he painted the split second image of pain onto the Penguin's face, because he wanted to, no needed, to see something, anything, there before him. Death, there was too much death and maybe that was why he couldn't stop himself. Because for the first time in years Oswald had looked alive with a smirk on his face and the melody of a broken, sadistic, beautiful laugh still lingering in the air around all his perfect destruction. He'd wanted so desperately to taste what it felt like to watch the revival of the man he'd been tormented by the thought he'd had a hand in killing. And hoped in the moment that perhaps he could undo it, rewrite it like he rewrote the Penguin before him to the Oswald of the past in his mind. Perhaps he could still fix this. 

"Edw- Riddler," he stumbled but caught himself, clipped his words, sighed, "I take it you have the information you came looking for so you may be on your way much as I am going to be on mine."

The Penguin smoothed out his suit and gave the man before him a wide birth as he began to make his way toward the exit, mouth in a thin line.

"I'll have my associates get in touch with you if I need anything more from you, as per usual. Good day to you, old friend."

The words bit into his flesh and Edward couldn't help the shiver that tore down his spine. Oh god help him, what was he to do?


	2. how come I see you and ache instead?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you move on from an entire shift in your already shaky dynamic? What would you do? Oswald Cobblepot sure as hell doesn't know what to do, but he'll make sure he always comes out on top. He hasn't gotten to where he is by being weak, after all. And the years and betrayals he's suffered has taught him his lesson.
> 
> Love is his weakness for which he shall never suffer again. How lonely.

Hollow. 

He wondered if, on the rare occasions, when Batman landed blows to his body he heard reverb instead of soft flesh and brittle bone. 

Hollow. 

Had the contents of everyone he used to be get thrown up over the years or had someone opened him up and scooped him out?

Hollow. 

He needed a drink. He needed a cigarette. He needed, he needed, he needed only small things. He'd learned the hard way that if you need too big you... "Riddler."

"Os- Penguin," the taller man coughed. Coming to stand next to the wrong man at the wrong time. Oswald took a long drag from his cigarette, focusing the on glow of the cherry and the sound of the rain and leaned back flush against the building, his building. Wished he could feel the vibrations of the music coming from inside the Iceburg Lounge so he'd have something to focus on, something to feel other than this, anything but this. He was tired. He was in pain. He was... 

"Is this spot taken," the joke came out more awkward than intended, his tone too nervous, too frigid, making the tension between them just that more noticeable. Oswald attempted to hide the grimace that couldn't help but grace his features by looking to the left before fluidly looking to the right, his eyes scanning the streets. Naturally, at 2 a.m. they were empty. 

"Doesn't look like you have any contenders."

He saw the small quirk of the lips as Edward half smiled at that. He was looking down, as he moved more comfortably into place and imitating Oswald by leaning back. No matter how comfortable he tried to look his fidgiting hands gave him away. That's one nervous habit that hadn't changed, Oswald noted with a tinge of sadness. He looked back out, staring straight ahead at the rain and the dark and quiet buildings before him. He had a sinking feeling in his gut and a headache forming and he had to resist the urge to rub his temples. He knew what this was and he didn't need it. Couldn't deal with it.

"So, I wanted to say-" Ed had finally found his voice but Oswald refused to let him.

"I suggest you reassess the situation you're in, because if you expected to come here and pour your heart out without consequence you were sorely mistaken," he hoped his words dripped with the venom he intended them to. Hoped they cut like a knife or perhaps ached like a bullet wound one has struggled to forget but insists on being remembered. Hoped the pain on the others face wouldn't reach out and punch him in the gut but you can't always get what you want and Oswald has to look away from the hurt in the others eyes.

"I-I'm sorry," the words are choked out, rushed, and broken. Just like they are. Two broken men, so close to shattering but too stubborn to let that happen. He feels Edward moving away before he sees it, reaches out to stop him by grabbing the sleeve of his suit before he can think better of it. He tugs lightly, asking, and Edward eases as Oswald forces out a small laugh.

"You know, I never thought I'd say it but I think almost feel more comfortable around you when you've got a gun in your hand and intent to kill."

Their smiles are mirrored agony, and Oswald flicks away his cigarette to grab Edward's tie, pulling the man down to his level. Their lips brush, soft and sweet and anything and everything that they are not. Or at least it could be, if Oswald had just let it. But... 

It's quick, over in a breath's time, and already he's walking away, back into his club. "I'm not going to make the same mistake again, Edward," he puts emphasis on a name he's loath to speak aloud, "I can promise you that and that alone."

He's gone, as well as the music, and Edward is left outside alone with the rain and his reply. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea what I'm doing but I hope you like it.
> 
> Also: 
> 
> Edward has got his work cut out for him, and I'm hoping he can melt this poor Penguin's icy heart. Perhaps it's not too late?


	3. how come you only look pleased in bed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the heels of another kiss,  
> Granted only with a warning,  
> Who is Edward Nygma to think he even stands a chance?
> 
> Well, he must be someone if his newly found nightlife  
> says anything for him  
> since he's far too tied up to answer for himself
> 
> What's keeping him busy you ask?
> 
> Oh well you know, the usual,  
> drinking til his skin matches his clothes,  
> waiting for even the slightest of chances to lay eyes on the owner,  
> *cough* stalking *cough*  
> Gotham's very own Shadow King,  
> and the current spark to set a flame in Riddle Boy's heart,  
> Oswald Cobblepot.
> 
> Poor Ed, you're never gonna get anywhere like that.  
> Perhaps an very one-sided old rival of yours can help?  
> If he doesn't make that stupid joke  
> And piss your extremely plastered self off that is, right?
> 
> Fingers Crossed  
> xoxo  
> (GOSSIP GIRL)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for the fact that this took me so long to complete and publish. I had the words for what I wanted in my head so very long ago but much difficulty in finding a way for myself to execute them until just now.
> 
> I hope that this, as well as it's follow-up, a chapter sitting in my head waiting to be written, can be enough to pay penance and make the wait considered to be worth it.
> 
> Thank you so much for waiting.  
> Thank you so very much for all the kind comments, and words.  
> Thank you, so much, to my extremely loving and far too patient boyfriend, who made this chapter possible at the behest of his shower on compliments and sung praises of the way he perceives me as having even a shred of talent. He's beautiful and he's blind. 
> 
> Love you, dear  
> and love you all, dearly.

"This is terrible business practice," the Riddler sneered under his breath, but could only be seen as a measely slur thanks to the amount of alcohol he's consumed in the past two hours alone. 

So while it should have been said about the bartender who'd yet to cut him off, it was in all actuality spoken with the club's owner in mind. The one and only reason every single night for the past week and a half had been spent hiding behind a glass, seated at the same stool, listening to what seemed to be the same music and same conversations, crossing his fingers in hopes of just getting the slightest of chances and then kicking himself for even daring to dream and also how could he let himself make an idiot of himself just to prove he possessed the loyalty of a small canine as well as the shamelessness of one, and for what? 

For what?! For the Penguin? For fucking Oswald Cobblepot, former Mayor and current holder of the title: King of Gotham, former umbrella boy and current number one on the list of people you'd regret underestimating, his former best friend and current holder of his fucking affections, which oh yeah that's why!! How could he even try to forget the one and only reason he'd make a fool of himself, let alone subject himself to the maddening monotony of the drolls who flocked and flooded to nightspots such as this - since, after all, the Iceburg Lounge was notorious for being frequented not only by the creme-de-le-creme of Gotham's elite but also the individuals known for terrorizing them, as well as the only place they could all co-exist. He couldn't even begin to, but he could be drunkenly annoyed by it all when all he had to show for his efforts was leaving fucking shit-faced station and barreling head-first into his departure at blind off his ass Fucked Up.

"What's terrible business practice?" 

It's an all too familiar voice that asks, no doubt accompanied by a cock of the head and a lazy smirk meant to show the fangs of whom it adorned, and did all too good a job at freezing the Riddler in his place with the sudden tenseness felt in every last one of his muscles. Prompting his thanks to lucky stars he hadn't had to crane his neck to find the source nor suffer through the pain from both the neck spasm sure to accompany the gesture nor having to attempt to hide the flinch sure to follow. 

After all, Victor Zsasz is the last person you want to display any sign of weakness in front of. Your worry stemming not from who he could talk to, but in the public way any you let slip would be paraded around, rumored to be done in the worst fashion imaginable in the most public of places as possible. Said to be a new brand of torture designed meticulously around, who fucking knows, the drama of it all? All he knows is that the victim is supposed to display their ultimate weakness, their lowest low by begging for a swift painless death he'd never indulge. Why should he? When doing so would only eat into the delight to be by handing out single-serve misery and the simple luxury of choice when the hand's your own. 

Oh but wait that's right. It's too late because if being shit-faced on a Tuesday a little after midnight, all by yourself in a nightclub no less, isn't almost definitely a sign of complete and utter weakness then who could say what is?

"If you don't mind me asking and you're not too busy to answer, that is."

Ed had only ever liked Victor Zsasz for one reason and one reason only: he had to hand it to the assassin, he was nothing if not the most loyal person under Oswald's employ. Mainly due in part to him no longer being, and having not been so, himself, for years now, and he hated to admit this part but... also where he and Oswald had failed to reconcile their differences and make up for their pasts, Zsasz had only ever left the Penguin's side once and for a reason that could be viewed as completely justifiable. 

Shit, when even from his position as the betrayed, Oswald Cobblepot had never been heard to refer to the incident on the rare occurrences it'd been brought up, and only ever had out of spite for either the shadow ruler or his trusty assassin proved a great way to get a knife buried deep within any artery found to be in ease of reach by a man well known for his height or more so his lack thereof, as anything other than being 'completely understandable'. Who was he to begrudge the actions of a man who was convinced one of the only ones to inspire such a deep sense of loyalty had his hands dripping in the blood of, the first, and only other who stirred up much of the same? A victory almost none could claim, these feelings were a trophy to be displayed on only to most beautiful of mantles.

Seen with respect in the public eye, a feat regarded with the triumph it deserved when dished out by the only one successful making up a career based entirely off the unique flavor of his true nature the display of which left a taste akin to apathy on the tongue, and in turn became a true litmus test for success within the manifestations which there were multiple of:

as an umbrella of sorts whose name, adopted as a bullet point to pad a resume, became synonymous with the protection ensued upon one's use.

when misused, may have stained a couple of start-up or two - dozen - as nothing other than the cheap knock-offs they so obviously were

(the term knock-off, when uttered alone, as is common knowledge by anyone in connection with a life of crime but especially ties to the mob, has enough force to cause irreparable damage to any sort of name one has made himself. Now even the most long standing seats at the table aren't safe, for when the term comes tied to it a title bears enough weight to revoke, a weight that manifests as a ripple felt even by those lowest on the proverbial totem pole. Notorious for the high body counts said to follow any instance it was uttered, said to be the root cause of multiple if not every turf war to date and a favorite used by history scholars and mob legends alike. So either say goodbye to any security once enjoyed by your family and empire alike when you hammer the final nail in too many coffins to count or spend the extra dough 'cuz after all yous got a rep to protect eh? Capice?)

whose forfeit of all together if you so choose to deny it, said to be a guaranteed career-killer - haha - for any and all brands of seedy and/or shady business performed by the shadows, protected under the guise of shadows, cast off the belly of the city and the beast, who knew no other name than Gotham.

Naturally it was only the man who boasted a legacy of making the title of King everything it meant and more, whose seat at the table everyone wanted but no one wanted to shed blood for, whose time took with it the title of "Old Gotham." Don Falcone was truly the only man to inspire the ability of those of the "New" to fall into rank and put aside their differences out of sheer respect alone. How sad it was, the waste of his death, so utterly devoid of any meaning at all, carried out at the behest of the last to be suspect, his one and only heir. Whose only reason to wield death's scythe could be summed up as the tantrum of a spoiled brat, no longer begging but now telling her Daddy she wanted more time to play with her newest toys.

How unfortunate, the way an untimely death brings with it all the more misery, said to be felt by Oswald the most. For he saw another stint in Arkham when doing only right in faking the death of an orphan boy he'd began to regard as something akin to his own son. Who upon jailing found everything he'd work so hard to build erased and encased the grimy sadistic claws of the only truly hated member of the family of Falcone. Whose time spent served, stuck in the walls of a madhouse tortured by the accompanying laughter of having Jerome Valeska as your neighbor, and even more so by his decision to break any will you may care to have left. So you grovel and make a deal with your old bestie to break you out after you finally give in to the only demand on his part you ever refused, but only in doing so could you have ever hoped to kill the woman who has Stolen your Child and Hitman and Empire, but after being free unfortunately not thanks to your own two hands has to make one final sacrifice that comes in the form of sending your Child off for his insured future wellbeing, well... 

"I do, in fact, mind and, while lacking the accuse of being busy or any other for that matter, I still can and will decline to answer."

Oswald, despite Edward's best attempts to understand, could still not find it in himself to lay blame where blame was due in the man standing before him. Whose sole testimony was what James Gordon balanced the entire case upon, and for which upon the blame for being the sole mechanism by which the cold hands of suffering were allowed strike one could balance guilt's weight. In his stead, Edward Nygma would forever do, what he could not, for him. Fuck man, he's lay the blame all fucking day, just you wait and see. Don't think won't,

Just try him.

"Yeah, well, I can and will: little advice, from one villain to the next, I hear it's really bad for your business practice if you're caught dead with even half a pout like that."

Ed felt his eyes go wide and then set his features into a grimace, that if truth be told was only one of many in his personal arsenal, a practiced expression whose glass was only broken in case of an ongoing social emergency. By emergency he meant any situation referred to later on only by the utter distaste with which he experienced it. Then again, he'd never found the words to be mutually exclusive, and now that he truly thought of it, in fact, there was no social situation he hadn't found distasteful nor a distasteful situation that wasn't inherently social. 

Ha! Thank you very much, Social Anxiety. Oh wait, shit. Zsasz. Still there. Still in public. Still talking? Who knows, maybe you should pay attention you drunk green loser. Ha! Green, get it cause you're the Riddler and also you're jealous as fuck of Victor fucking Zsasz and wow you swear a ton when you're intoxicated and nervous and shut the fuck up.

"Yeah, just like that," Zsasz is pointing at the expression that has graced the face of his question-mark lover of a companion and laughing, which while it's been said to have a rather sour affect on the lanky fellow before him was not a fact that could ever hold merit or weight on his actions past or present. The far better killer of the two couldn't have cared any less if he tried. No, not because he was a better killer, nor that he had been in the business longer, and not because he ever cared about the blanket treaty the League forced them all to recognize, nah it was so much simpler than that. 

So simple, it could even be regarded as one of the oldest reasons ever known. He'd just never really cared for the dude. Feelings only made more sour after the other mans attempts to ruin his Boss's life, as well as an almost successful attempt on his life, and that the final and worst act of all, the act of maliciously intending to break a heart, had yielded nothing but glorious success. Success the man only ever wanted to award the only way he knew how; any itchy trigger finger and a target to go with that stolen bowler hat. So with just a word, or even lack there of, he'd jump at the chance to bask in the glory of the opportunity,

However it seemed Oswald had been right to once upon a time say: Fortune sure favored the Bold; or those only bold in the way they couldn't give two fucks about spitting in the face of the kindness bestowed by those whose hearts they set out to break. Since much to his own chagrin, as well as the numerous coaxes of rewards like milkshakes and pizza, he'd been told his very own to-be number one favorite all time headshot was utterly off limits, never to be hurt by any hands but the King's own under any circumstances, even under the duress of any life or death situation the two could ever be perceived as being in. His protection under the boss even went so far that he'd been forced to.. yuck.. play super secret bodyguard to Questions Guy in the past. Gross...

"Also, and not that it's any of my business, can't be deemed too great a practice itself to come to the club, of the dude you sometimes work for no less, and get sh-Wasted like every single night for over a week. Possibly, more like probably, no doubt about it soon to be more."

"You're right, it isn't any of your business, so maybe you should just like, shut it!"

Was the best of a retort to be managed, but only if your name was Edward, and you'd just had another shot 'cause um why not, and your cheeks were beat red from getting called out for the practice of stalking your main source of employment, the practice of which you had only very recently picked up following the second kiss the two of you shared and one the many things you're far too stubborn to let die as the bad idea it started out as and was always going to be since you're obviously a child, and what doesn't help disprove your child status like at all, by the way, is to follow up with the act of sticking your tongue out for emphasis at, and because of, the only other adult you're communicating with. No, nothing proved your status as an adult, which you of all people, you? look at you, definitely just cemented in the emotional maturity with which you 100% no doubt at all handled yourself and the entire situation.

So when he doesn't get the answer to his super adult action he'd expect, and no not the definitely not the answer seemingly wished by a thirteen year old scorned, the farfetched pipe dream of a hasty tail-in-leg style retreat, but in the true to form carefree all out belly laugh that started the surrounding patrons in its abruptness, accompanied by a hand clapped to the broad but tense shoulder of a man who'd always made himself smaller and who would normally hate the touch, would even stab a lesser man for it, but as a welcome alternate to the only opposite scenario he found find plausible and definitely had to be a gun pointed at his face. 

An event the likeliness of which he'd seen as all the more inevitable with each passing year, because even back when he'd been an actual idiot, a time he'd yearned to forget stemming from the moment he stopped being the centerpiece feature for the Iceburg Lounge, he'd still had half the mind to know that Zsasz was a threat and a threat who desperately wanted to punctuate any future the two had laid before them with the exclamation of a bullet in the brain. Now while boasting much the same name, was not in fact the same club, the establishment for which he'd spent the better part of a week frequenting in, what could only be described as, a neverending insanity loop on the vicious cycle of repeated behaviors. A viciousness he felt the weight of most upon leaving, with an empty stomach and empty hands, the slight turning sensation hummed by a hint of nausea, the only crayon with which to color-in glass eyes. 

But it wasn't closing time yet and nothing was going to stop him from using even the smallest of most unwanted victories as being the reason with which to justify every single night before then. Because he could, and fuck you. And the face of denied being that at least he had even a triumph he could count. True victory in the face of every other defeat for the man before him had yet to make that stupid fucking joke.

"Okay, that was fucking hilarious. Didn't know you ever had it in ya, to be ya know funny ever." 

The man clad in black leather sighed as he wiped away tears that weren't actually residing in the creases of sparkling blue eyes. A small detail he'd never noticed before but then again had never bothered wasting the effort it would need to even try. This was the closest he'd been to Zsasz since tricking Butch into outing himself as the true leader he'd been to the Red Hood Gang. Huh. 

"I always thought you'd be far too busy taking yourself super seriously to ever really be, Riddle dude, which is honestly why it surprised me so much when I found you'd finally let that all go to," and despite the look of unadultered abhorrence thrown his way, for the previous quip as well as half the mind to know well enough what would follow, or more likely in spite of Victor didn't miss a beat to continue with: "show up and grovel in the hopes of getting your old job as human ice sculpture back."

FUCK. "I mean, I can honestly say I'm touched in the amount of dedication you've shown by sitting here, in the same spot, not moving at all, but unfortunately I can't promise you anything solid on my word alone." GODDAMNIT. FU-

Before the man who had made a name for himself by being a career villain, and we won't say how much of the name came from his notorious love of riddles nor how long it was to come up with nor how much of his skills were taught to him by the ones he'd call his peers, but instead we'll bring to mind what acts one would have to perform before earning such a moniker, got a chance to even begin to initiate one such aforementioned act of heinousness found himself cut short by a finger asking for a mere moment while he regained composure after losing his fucking absolute shit at how funny he found himself, yeah har har laugh it the fuck up so original so funny omg. If it hadn't been for the calculation of how much audacity it would take to even ask in the first place taking up the place any former heinous action may have held in his attention span, one couldn't say the granting of a moment, nor the several actually spanned, the following world righting words would have never been uttered, a true tragedy that would know no endless bounds.

"But I can promise an interview with the boss to show him how dedicated you really are. So what do you say, come back tomorrow night? Nothing before 3:30 in the morning though. Go get yourself cleaned up and sober, this good for you?"

There was no way in the world for someone like Nygma, with a notoriously poor grasp on the drive that resulted from it's span and an even poorer grasp on the vast range under which human emotion seemed to exist, to truly understand what in the fucking world Victor Zsasz could be thinking about on any given day but he could try his best to guess, there was no way in the world for him to even try to even formulate his worst in response to this. He'd never have possessed the information needed to put the how and the why of the gift bestowed thanks in part to the fickle will of a man whose entire existence could be easily explained away and summed up with nothing more than 'chaotic neutral trickster god' with a lower case g. Take that internet, the Riddler does in fact pay attention! He's got his hands on youth's rapidly changing pulse! He knows what's good!

"Uhh, that sounds pretty lit. Yeah, uh, I'll, um, leave like immediately. I'll be back, Okay? Okay. Peace, dude." 

The only response found by Ed to be befitting of the gift, as well as a goodbye suited for the man it would leave behind. So much better than the departure he'd planned and had at the ready, which amounted to whatever version of 'eat my shorts you bald bitch' he'd managed to get out instead. He wouldn't of been picky as long as it came close, not when he'd somehow bypassed ending up most likely dead, after his own attempts at murder over a bad joke. A joke he'd heard some variation of at least twice a night, every night, without fail and no murder charges to be added to the list of any party involved. 

So, yeah, it should have been seen as quite the gift in return when not a drop of blood had to be washed off the very hands he'd been made to promise never to shed any blood with, but while Ed sees it as a present he was so humbly sparred with the kiss of Lady Luck, the only kiss Victor got was never knowing that he missed out on the absolute delight it would have been to see a very drunk tall child, only tall because he's secretly three small kids stacked one on top the other, call him a bald bitch and any glee that no doubt would have followed the whole thing.

God, if he'd known, he'd probably have never ruined it by saying anything. Oh well...


End file.
